


Draw A Love

by sapphire_elliore



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: I SHOULD BE STUDYING FOR AN EXAM BUT NOOO I GOTTA DO THIS, Kdrama, M/M, Phan - Freeform, Phanfiction, as said, kdrama au, this loosely based on a kdrama, w two worlds au, you don't really have to watch the kdrama but it is a nice recommendation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:44:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8363797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire_elliore/pseuds/sapphire_elliore
Summary: Dan keeps getting pulled into this odd universe—he already labelled it as such, in his fictional view of all things; where he has no idea what it is and why he keeps getting pulled there, but when he meets Phil Lester, with his blue eyes, black-dyed hair, and a rather unnaturally angelic personality that closely resembles Dan’s fictional creation—Dan still has no idea what he just got into. He knows a few things though; (a) he should be admitted to a psych ward or something when he tells his story, because who would believe his sanity, right? And, (b) he ended Phil’s story way before. (loosely based on W Two Worlds)





	1. Of Set-ups and Mishaps

**Author's Note:**

> This is a chaptered work, and hopefully I can pull this off properly as the concept that the kdrama (W Two Worlds) offers is extremely unique and actually, awesome.  
> Lol who am I kidding I shall wing this.  
> (Reviews and kudos are very much appreciated!)

HE VISUALIZED _Phil Lester_ as a young man whose outlook in life was so positive, that it could only exist in a fictional universe, but also be deemed read-worthy for his readers. 

And now when Dan notices as he makes his daily sweep of the internet cult known as tumblr, he sees a sudden hype going on around _“fictional BAMF angel bean Phil Lester”_. 

He rationalizes his own sudden internal panic as something that tumblr has just picked up, whether by algorithm or by just these nerds stumbling upon his creation and creating a big deal and hype around Phil Lester. But when he looks at the _“Phil Lester”_ tag, he gets shocked on what he sees. 

_**bamfconfirmed:** _

look, guys! Is W going to be continued? [x]

 _Now that’s interesting_. He ended W two years ago, when he was forced to abandon his online shenanigans and comic dreams when he forced himself to plunge in and immerse himself in law, his parents’ chosen path for his success. 

Now, with a nice-paying job and a freely-scheduled work times, he can’t say to himself whether or not he doesn’t like his job because he would still go back, in a heartbeat, when given a chance, to his passion. 

But not now, when he’s at the peak of his career and enjoying his life managing a law firm after years of hard work. 

_That’s ridiculous_ , he thinks as he still clicks on the link, waiting for the page to load. _It could just be an edited thing and posted on the internet by some troll or someone who would pose as me._

But as he sees the old domain where he posts his work, and glances at the last page of his very last update, to see not the casual _“the end”_ looming at the bottom right corner, beside the last frame where he drew Phil Lester hanging off a bridge, attempting to end his life, giving up on himself, his positive outlooks shattered along his hopes of having a peaceful life; 

_It was a casual **“to be continued”** instead._

_I didn’t do that._ He tells himself, as he picks up his phone to call a friend. 

Few rings, and the person picks up the call. _“What were you thinking, sending me a revised last chapter?! I thought you were going to stop?”_

“I didn’t send you anything, Louise. I thought we were both clear on that? Did you post this?” Dan asks, his irritation looming over him. _Stay calm,_ he wills himself. _There must be a misunderstanding somewhere._

“It was sent to my staff last night, I had it confirmed, and then posted it.” Louise explains. 

“And you didn’t think that wouldn’t be weird?” He counters. 

_“It was sent by **your email,** Dan—why would it be weird?”_ Louise counters. _“And don’t even say that you stopped for a long time and now suddenly I would be back with a revision, because that’s bullcrap, Dan!”_

He doesn’t say anything, but merely browse through the whole update. He knows what Louise meant about no need for confirmation because he only sends it into one email, and nobody has access to that but him, and as if anyone would actually think of hacking a random email, and sending a _very well copied edited version_ of his work. Nobody has time for that. It would just be nudes all over the internet, and that email has none or no connection to him either. But what does Louise mean? 

“What do you mean, _bullcrap,_ Lou?” He asks, wondering. 

_“I think we both know that this is your kind of comeback, Daniel. You would pull off exactly a stunt like this. And besides, you’re the only who can draw exactly like this, aren’t you?”_ Louise tells him. 

So maybe that’s what it is. Maybe Dan, in the middle of some odd spontaneous impulse, made a revision chapter, sent it to Louise, and forgot that whole damn process. _That’s crazy._ But he has to put some sort of hypothetical explanation to what’s happening, or else he’d be wrecked with effort just thinking about it. 

_“So, what are you planning? Are we going to expect anything?”_

And this is the part of Dan’s life, when he’d look back, is when he’d label it as the most stupid moment of his life. “It’s just a teaser, Lou. I’ll see it first. If it’s there, it’s there.” He replies, and then hangs up. 

_At the end of the day he claims it as his own work. Great goin’._ Well, if he follows and sticks to his current hypothesis, he should claim it as his own. 

And maybe, he thinks, _it’s a sign._

So he closes of his internet browser and decides to head to his office, where his desktop computer was. _If I’m going through everything, I might as well go from the very beginning._ He thinks as he makes his way through the stairs that leads to his office. 

* 

PHIL LESTER, by anyone’s standards, is a boy with almost everything set before him. His loving family, who brimmed him with never ending love and support as he tells them about his dreams, fears, and insecurities. A family that he was thankful for being a part of, with their odd holiday traditions of throwing socks during the early morning Christmas eve, the no-setting of fireworks, and the endless rush of gifts and food, even when they were in a tight spot. 

He was loved and accepted for who he was, even though he decided to pursue what was not expected of people who according to his teachers, ‘was smart enough to go to top universities, and have the capacity to handle the ropes of engineering’ (not that he’d ever admit it, but he was really just asking around for Math tips, he was never good at it)—he decides to compete in Men’s 50m Pistol, at the Olympics. 

Now that’s something his peers mocked him first. 

_“With all your brains, you decide to go to the Olympics?”_

_“What a shame, looks like somebody’s a coward on facing academics.”_

“Scared of failing classes, Philly?” 

But to be honest, the second one doesn’t strike him as a mocking for his own pride. Then again, nothing ever strikes his hopes and dreams down. 

And he did, compete. He remembers standing there, right arm outstretched, his pistol in hand, his mind and body feeling the adrenaline and an ongoing chant from his inner subconscious; _to win, win, win._

He remembers his mid-downfall at the scoreboards the moment he snags the top position from the Russian representative. How his father would tell him, as he takes his final shot to _actually take the bloody shot, and not stall_. But he takes his time, winding down the seconds, taking his perfect timing and then— 

He only hears his dad’s joyous cries as he takes him in his arms to embrace him, his mind barely registering the gesture as _I won, you won, Phil—you won!_

But of course, life is a whole rotational process, sometimes you’re way up, and then you’ve sunken down to a place you never thought you’d be – like when he sees his family; brutally murdered inside their own home. He remembers rushing inside, after hearing no response from his usual three-knock pattern on their wooden door, and then discovering that the door was unlocked. 

The moment is still ingrained in his memories, every image from their home on that very evening that still haunts him until now. 

His mother, lying down on their doorway, a single bullet shot on the centre of her forehead, judging from the obvious bullet hole on her forehead—all of them, his family, sustaining the same injury. The television was still on, now airing the press conference of the winning team that he didn’t simply even care. He takes his phone, dials the emergency number, taking in the whole scenario before him. 

_”This is the emergency hotline. State your emergency.” He hears the dispatcher’s slightly monotonous voice. And yet he can’t answer. He tries, but he can’t speak. He looks again to his mother, cradles her in his arms after he closes her eyes. What is the emergency?_

_”Sir, your emergency, please?”_ The voice was now insisting, impatient. Because after all, it might just be one of their prank calls, right? That’s what he initially thought. He then also wishes his situation was a prank, because Halloween was near right? They’ll be alive- but then he feels no pulse from his mother. No prank here. 

So he swallows his lingering tears and emotions, to make sure that his emergency will be properly heard. “My family is dead.” He says, and it all sinks in. They’re all dead, and I’m all alone. 

He’s all alone, and now an outcast of the society, his every appearance and tried his best to live a new life and move on from everything that happened to him because, life sucks for a while. Just a while, endure and you’ll get through it was his mantra; but he’s a human being, was he not? 

You won’t expect an orphaned teenager to suddenly be okay after finding his family dead, being accused of their deaths, being placed into trial, and then being first sentenced with death (at first he thought that’d be okay, he’d be with his family, but no, he realizes that he doesn’t want to go down in history as a boy who killed his family, so he waited and appealed, because he didn’t; why can’t they understand that ?), and then being finally acquitted of the crime because there was no evidence to support it (of course, he didn’t kill them, it took them that long to understand?). 

But of course, the idea of him being now a free criminal is still there in the public’s mind, and as much as he wanted to move on his hope and enthusiasm drains every minute he spends walking on this world he lived in. Every murmur of judgement, every insult and degradation he went through for being somebody that he wasn’t; and even though he was cleared of his charges, he was treated like scum. 

And then he wanted to die. As surprising as it sounded to himself when he voiced that thought, which totally came out of the blue as he was walking home from the convenience store, but he never questioned it because _yes, he totally agrees_. And so he finds himself hanging off his town’s interconnecting bridge, a few meters below the deep waters. Every painful memory going through him, _everything_. 

_He wants to die. He **has to** die._

_But he hasn’t found the person who killed his family._

* 

He never realized how cruel Phil’s set up was until he read it again. 

If Phil was a living person, just like him, he would probably be down and hopeless after everything he’d been through, Dan thinks. _He may also question why he isn’t dead or why---_

Dan pauses, and then scrolls back up to Phil’s death scene. 

There was no death scene. 

Of course he, the creator himself took long enough to realize that a big part of this update was really changed. It was wrong the moment he saw the “to be continued” sign beside the panel where Phil Lester hangs tightly to the bridge, on the verge of wanting to live and wanting to die because Dan _knew_ he killed Phil. 

He killed Phil as a metaphor of his own dreams and ambitions, when everything you want and dream of seems to fit perfectly but when everything goes downhill, you will too. 

But no, because _yes, this is his art style_ and he should remember if he changed it, right? 

He minimizes the window for a bit, being greeted with a very plain white background reflecting to him. He closes his eyes and leans back to lean on the chair, letting himself to think on what to do with _whatever was going on here_. 

Fact #1: Phil Lester’s story _hypothetically_ ends now with a cliff hanger (almost literally, but it was a bridge though) with him being on the brink of life and death. 

Fact #2: He remembers clearly, that he chose to end Phil’s life. 

Fact #3: He never wanted Fact #2. 

Fact #4: And now, apparently, this new and very odd update has been online for quite some time, and as Louise said; _this type of updates and shenanigans was very him_. So why not use it as a sign? 

Fact #5: He has a job. He can’t do it. Not with the demands of law. 

Fact #6: He can always take the gap year/year-off his company offers him, with him also being a shareholder in their company, he can always pull it off and sustain himself. 

Fact #7: He likes Fact #6. 

Dan opens his eyes again, swivels his chair to the direction of the other wooden table beside his computer, now completely barren. He feels the euphoria and excitement going through him—this is the first time in years since he finally can open his drawing tablet to create a _legitimate piece_ and not just a thing he does to release steam and frustration, to be deleted afterwards. 

He leans down, under that desk to grab a black compartment bag, and hastily lifting it to the desk. He unzips it and gets his drawing tablet from it. Grabs the few other supplies, and then assembles everything. 

He smiles. _This is it, huh? __He thinks as he finally boots the tablet open; and is finally greeted with a white screen._

But Dan felt he needed something to commemorate this milestone, and he still hasn’t called the company yet to confirm his year-off, so he sets off back to the kitchen to grab a glass of whatever fancy he has in the kitchen, while calling his company in the process; leaving his tablet open and ready. 

* 

The man, white his plain white dress shirt now stained in his own blood, lies on the cold pavement of the rooftop. He was barely hanging on. 

He tries, to search. To find the man who assaulted him, his supposed to be informant. But his efforts were to no avail as pain shoots up from his wound and renders him immobile. But he still manages to laugh at his current situation. 

_All it took was a few bloody years from my barely hanging on fiasco, and here we are again._ He thinks as he laughs again at how stupid he was. No phone. His bodyguard wasn’t even with him. What was he even thinking? Also, is he finally gonna die now, when he was just so close to finding the killer? 

He wills himself, to no, _don’t die now Phillip, not when you were just that close._ But he silently wishes for a miracle, because there is nobody here, and nobody within the hearing distance for his cries of help to be heard. 

_Just, somebody. Help me, please. I can’t die now, not yet._

He feels his eyes shutter close, and he surrenders to the pain. His wish still echoing on his mind as his final conscious thought. _Let me have somebody, please._

* 

Dan’s back at his office, he’s got the year-off all confirmed and easy, his Ribena now cooling off on the far side of the table, on top of a coaster mat, he’s also got his scribble pad and a black pencil. 

But he doesn’t expect to see an already drawn panel. 

_Is there somebody else in this house? Is my drawing tablet on a rekt mode?_ He thinks as he turns his back to it to grab his phone, lying beside his desktop computer to call somebody to knock his hallucinating senses out. 

But he feels a tugging sensation in his right arm, and before he can turn to look on whoever or whatever was pulling him, he gets tugged, _hard_ , and his phone seemed to far and everything was all black to him.


	2. Telling Professional Staff that Someone's Dying on their Rooftop in Your Pjs isn't the Way to Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, there we go.  
> Also, thanks for coming this far, haha.  
> Edit: I just realized that i haven't placed the descripition for pneumothorax, and just marked it as such. I apologize.
> 
> (reviews & kudos are appreciated!)

There was no way in hell that Dan was still in his home, that everything that just happened was merely a result of him not being able to sleep properly for _years_ , because (a) he was in a rooftop of some high-ass building in his town, and (b)obviously, he didn’t wake up to the comfort of his soft white floor carpet while harbouring a bruise somewhere – but he did wake up to the sight of London’s starless sky and the cold, hard cement floor beneath him. 

He slowly stands up, realizing that if he’s outside then that means he has _absolutely nothing_ on him but his lounge pants and his “potato sack”(as his friends call it) sweater. He doesn’t even have any _proper_ footwear, he realizes as he look down to his feet, seeing his house slippers. 

But then again, he is worrying about his outfit when there is a body lying just a few meters away for him, who looks extremely wounded— 

Wait, what? Why is there blood? Is he okay? Dan rushes to the body, checking if the person was either drunk and just decided to stargaze to a starless city sky and the blood he saw from afar was _totally not_ blood but something other than blood, or it’s really a wounded human being. 

_It’s a wounded human being_ , Dan thinks as he check for the person’s pulse. Faint, but it was there. So, then what? What would he do next? He’s not a freakin’ doctor, so is this the time where he should run to somebody for help? 

_I don’t have my phone with me, how would I call?_

”Excuse me, are you okay?” He tries, as much as he chided himself for it because _isn’t it obvious that he’s not? Be surprised if he stands up tell you it’s a prank._

As much as he doesn’t like any physical activity to be done, he makes a run towards the door, and goes down the stairs, his breath running fast, _this is why I like staying home and lock myself up_ he thinks as he sees a room from the end of the stairs he was running down to. 

He goes in, and is surprised to see a restaurant-ish kitchen, with the staff looking at him. _Don’t be awkward this time Dan, you’re a lawyer for fucks sake; and a man’s life depends on you_ , so he tries his best to tell them. 

”There’s a badly-injured man upstairs, on the rooftop!” He exclaims, pointing his fingers upward to emphasize the point, “Please, help him!” 

Of course they wouldn’t believe him at first, because who will in their situation, when a man in his lounge attire and slippers, run inside their kitchen, only to exclaim there’s a barely-living man upstairs? Dan can only hope they’d at least try to help him. 

One guy was sent with him upstairs to check. 

”And how in the world are we suppose to help him when even not one of us know how to do first-aid?” Dan exclaims, frustrated as he makes a run (unfortunately, again) back to the rooftop, the staff member following him behind. 

The staff said nothing to him. _Well, that’s absolutely fucking helpful of you,_ Dan thinks. If only he didn’t care that it’d be on to the hands of the staff guy with him when he finds out about the person upstairs, but no, Dan felt _compelled_ to help the guy. 

They finally arrive to the rooftop, Dan swinging the door in front of him, and letting the staff member to see the guy lying on the concrete floor, bathing in his own blood. The staff guy, as Dan now calls him in his mind, gets shocked at the sight he sees and rushes to the guy. He follows behind, checking on what the staff guy would do. 

”Sir, excuse me, are you alright?” The staff member exclaims, jerking the person, probably hoping to get any response. There was none but the slight wincing of the person. And yet the staff guy continues to try and jerk him to consciousness, to which Dan thinks is probably not the best way to deal with a barely-unconscious and heavily-injured person. 

Dan jerks the staff away, and moves to check for the person’s pulse again, to find that it’s the same way as before. He doesn’t know what to do at this point. “Call for an ambulance, or help, something!!” He exclaims to the stunned staff guy. 

”Ah, yes, of course!” The guy exclaims as he reaches for his own phone, and does the call. 

”But what’s going on,” the staff guy asks as he places his phone down. “Who is he? Why is he badly hurt?” 

_Even I don’t know_ , Dan thinks. ”Did you call the ambulance?” He decides to ask again instead of replying. 

”Yes, I did. There’s also a surgeon’s conference downstairs.” The guy replies as he sees Dan extending his hand towards him. “What is it?” 

”Scissors. Or a pocket knife.” Dan requests, seeing that the only way he could help the person lying in front of them is to at least apply pressure to his wound, to help stop the bleeding. At least that’s what he gets from the internet or, shows. 

The staff guy hands him a small pocket knife, so Dan uses it to cut from the towel he grabbed from the kitchen room earlier, he sets the knife aside and then kneels, places each of the towels on the man’s wounds and applies pressure. The staff guy looks at him in question. 

”Do you know what you’re doing? We should wait until the doctors arrive.” The staff guy exclaims. 

”This,” Dan says as he applies pressure, hoping that he does this right. “man will die if I won’t give him aid, you twat.” 

”I’m no doctor, but I know a thing or two.” Dan adds, then realizing that that will further confuse the guy beside him. It’s true that he’s no doctor, but spending his time on medical-related cases, watching shows on the tv, and randomly reading shit from the internet when his own thoughts bother him at night will probably help him pull this through. He hopes. 

”How am I supposed to—“ 

”I’m trained in first aid!” Dan exclaims, interrupting the staff guy’s exclamations of doubt. If he considers the things he do, he can call himself trained (well not really). 

Their small issue was interrupted with the man, now obviously wincing in pain. The staff guy gets a call, and he answers it. 

”Ah, yes.” Dan can hear him answer, “Someone’s applying pressure to his wounds, yes. I don’t know who is though.” There was a pause, and Dan notices that staff guy has placed his phone on his left ear. 

”Hello?” Dan asks. The man over the phone tells him to describe the patient’s wounds so that they can gauge to instruct him to do any further first aid to avoid repercussions, so Dan tells him about his stab wounds. 

It was at that time when the person visibly convulses (or winces, at this point he’s not so sure) in pain, and Dan mildly panics. The man over the phone asks him to describe what’s going on, and Dan tells him. He was then asked to check for any swelling portions in the man’s upper area. 

Dan decides to stop applying pressure, to open the man’s dress shirt, and is shocked to see soft bulges under his skin, to the point that it seems to look like swelling on the person's chest area, on the area between his lungs; so he relays this to the person over the phone, and adds; 

”Isn’t this pneumothorax? His breath is running short, and it looks like it's this wound that brings him more pain” He asks, recognizing the said sight as _pneumothorax_ , from his extensive memory of cases; and medical injuries used for plot devices on television. “Do I need to make a puncture?” He asks again. 

_”If you make a mistake he’ll die! It’s too dangerous---“Dan wasn’t able to hear the next words as the person continues to groan in pain._

”Isn’t he going to die?” the staff guy asks. 

“He’s barely holding on!” Dan exclaims over the phone. A few moments and the person over the phone tells him to do so, but if he’ll be held responsible. _It’s funny how even when there’s a person dying, people around will still not let themselves be accountable and try to the blame out of them._

Dan takes the staff guy’s pen, takes the ink refill and nib off, and breaks it slightly; then he raises it mid-air, ready to strike. He takes one look at the guy beneath him, and apologizes in advance. 

_Sorry, but at least I tried._ With that last thought, he pleads to whatever or whoever was listening to make this work, and then stabs the broken pen case to the area of swelling, making the person jerk up slightly and open his eyes; making him stare, albeit frightfully at Dan. 

Dan stares back, trying to assess whatever was going on, and also see if the guy was okay; but before he can actually pull himself together to ask, the person retreats back to the floor with a gentle thump, and closes his eyes. Dan takes his hands off the pen, and just slightly backs away. 

“Is he okay?” the staff guy asks, “is he dead?” 

The person’s breathing stabled, as Dan can see; and the person has calmed down from all his wincing earlier. _I do hope not_ Dan answers in his mind. He hears footsteps behind them after the loud crash of the door being opened. He stands up, letting the rushing staff members, surgeons, and a gushing staff head (as Dan inferred with how he bossed the staff guy when he saw him) on how the hotel president is going to be okay. 

The doctor checks on the “hotel president” as Dan stands behind the him, watching. The “hotel president” opens up his eyes once again, and his gaze seem to level with Dan’s. His blue eyes reflect haziness and pain and there was a hint of amusement as well, if Dan was sure of himself. Of course he’s not, so he drops his own gaze to where a man, in a black blazer jacket, black skinny jeans, white shirt combo who was now beside the doctor. 

”Will he be okay?” The black-on-white-on-black combo guy, asks the doctor. 

”His pneumothorax has been taken care of. Please rush him to the hospital.” The doctor replies as the emergency team finished hoisting up the “hotel president” and took him away, lying in his stretcher. The doctors, staff, along with the combo guy follow. 

”Will Mr. Lester be okay?” the staff guy asks. “I didn’t even know it was _him_!” He turns to Dan, who was just awkwardly standing there. 

”You heard the doctor, he’s going to be fine.” Dan replies. “Hold on, are you telling me you didn’t recognize who?” Dan asks. 

”The president of this hotel,” The staff guy exclaims. “the Plaza Hotel?” The guy again tries when Dan gives him an _’i-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about’_ face. 

Dan just nods. He can always search it up when he gets home. “The police will be up shortly, please stay here to give your testimony.” The guy tells him, “who are you anyway?” 

”Dan Howell,” he tells the staff guy as he rummages through his pockets, as if he’ll have a calling card in his lounge pants. But there was. He pulls it out and tries to neatly fix the edges. “Here, it’s not really a great copy, more of a lucky one.” Dan hands him his calling card. 

”Thank you, really. You saved President Phil Lester’s life, thank you!” The staff guy says as he waves Dan goodbye, and leaves. 

_Look at you Dan, saving—_

_Phil Lester?!_

Dan’s own shock was interrupted by the flash of a letters being slowly formed in mid-air, just a few meters before him. He takes a few steps forward to read the text; 

_‘To be continued’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the link on where I read on more about traumatic pneumothorax, as calling it pneumothorax isn't really cutting it close;  
> https://www.drugs.com/cg/traumatic-pneumothorax.html
> 
> Chat with me on tumblr! (@darkhufflephan)


	3. If He's Beautiful, then Everybody Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a thing to distract all of us from what just happened.

 

The ‘ _to be continued’_ disappears; the view of the rooftop fades away to Dan’s office.

Dan blinks twice, taking the whole ordeal in. He was only supposed to try and draw, to bring _W_ back again, but he finds himself pulled into some _hotel’s_ rooftop, and saved an almost dying man in a process—with almost no medical background! 

What’s more, is _that hotel_ was called _Plaza_ , and was owned by the man he saved.

Did he mention that the man was named _Phil Lester,_ whose eyes bore in to him earlier, which way too much resembles the way he would draw his character, _also named Phil Lester_ ’s eyes?

And yet he finds himself grabbing his phone by instinct, checking for messages.

He wasn’t even gone for more than five minutes---

 _Wait._ He’s sure running around, saving a life, and socializing in the process takes _more than five fucking minutes,_ right? So he sets the phone down beside his drawing tablet, sits down, and actually check the time on the tablet.

_23:09._

It’s the same time as on his phone.

 _So, is my sense of time disrupted, did I have a extreme hallucination without me actually moving from where I stood, or have I just **actually been pulled into some alternate reality where I saved someone that strongly resembles my creation?**_ Dan questions himself. If he’s “sane” per this world standards, he would have chosen the second question, said yes, ignored the fact that he still has the right prescription to treat that, drop every thought related to his last question, and forget everything.

But then again, he deems himself a person who doesn’t attest to this world’s own standards, even if he had to choose a career that made himself a respectable and well-owned man of his age that made his family proud.

That was before.

*

Protesters line up in front of the hospital, amidst the afternoon heat. The hospital security line up, making themselves ready in case things get a little worse.

But then again, if these protesters hold up “get-well soon” placards and cheer that _Phil Lester should make a speedy recovery and whoever tried to pull that on him would go to hell, definitely_ \---then should they actually worry about a riot?

The security’s attention gets caught by a sleek black car being pulled up in front of their entrance, making the “protestors” step aside. The passenger’s side opens, and steps down a man dressed well in his suit and black shades. He opens the car door, and out steps another man, with his white dress shirt rolled up to his sleeves, his black slacks a bit too skinny for business attire (but then again with his dress shirt having two buttons opened, was he really going for the traditional?), and his leather topsider matches his brown hair makes the security step away to pave way for his arrival (along with his bodyguard) in awe.

He enters the hospital, the automatic doors opening for him, and in he goes.

He asks his bodyguard to stay on the entrance towards the VIP ward, and he then goes inside himself, with nothing but the faint clicking of his shoes against the tiled floor. Until he gets near to _that room_ , and he hears faint sounds, coming from a live broadcast.  He then sets his pace faster, and then _finally_ , he opens the door and enters the room, hearing the broadcast clearly.

 _“The doctors have now released a statement on Plaza Hotel’s president, Phil Lester’s condition after the violent assault to him last evening.”_  The first thing he sees is a slightly unruly blob of dyed-black hair, to which he looks down, and sees a smiling face. He raises his eyebrows.

_“...his conditions have now improved after his surgery, and will now go for recovery...”_

He prepares himself. To be angry and furious at the man smiling at him, with his shenanigans that made him almost _lose his own life_ and now he sits there, by his hospital bed—smiling as if nothing ever happened.

“Spare it, Chris.” A female voice halts him from his previous plans, he turns to see a blonde woman, donned in a suit, setting her mug down on the table. “He’s not going to listen.”

“Hazel!” he protests, “Look, Chris; i’m okay.” He hears him appeal.

He turns to him. “ _Phil,_ ” he starts, voice hinted with a bit of worry and concern, ” _you almost died.”_

Phil’s smile drops, his expression now turned into a “blank slate” as Chris calls it, where he (Phil) would merely stare at whatever was in front of him, and say nothing. It was a notion of thought.

“If it wasn’t for the person who ran for help, you wouldn’t survive.” Hazel breaks the silence, and motions for Chris to seat down on the opposite couch (to where she’s sitting), he shakes his head. _He has to stand this out._

Phil has to know that his own heroic deeds and tendencies won’t always result in positivity, with all his current influence and wealth, with the addition of his past baggage, Chris knew he had to _emphasize_ how dangerous it is to go to a meet-up with an “informant” _without a bodyguard._

“You’re lucky enough to survive, Phil Lester. Which leads us to the—“

“Did you find him?” Phil interrupts him. Chris wonders for a moment, on who could Phil refer. But then he remembers that slightly tattered and blood-stained business card he had with him, so he knew.

“No, he disappeared when the cops went up to get his testimony.” He pulls the said card out of his pocket, where he unceremoniously tucked it in, because why bother with a bag or an enclosure for it. “The email address and phone numbers are unreachable. They don’t exist.” He adds as he hands it to Phil, who then carefully looks at it.

“Dan Howell,” Phil reads out aloud. “Lawyer, Presmont Law Firm.”

“He’s suspicious, we don’t even know if he _exists,_ Phil.” Chris insists, noticing the curious lilt in Phil’s voice as he read aloud earlier.

“He does.” Phil affirms.

“Yeah, he does. Because you’ve seen him?” Chris asks him, “A _lawyer_ saved you from your inevitable death, but then disappears when we needed him to testify—Phil, don’t make me repeat— _Phil Lester, are you even listening?_ “ He stops when he notices Phil looking at the card.

“Find him. He can’t be that far away.” Phil tells him in response.

“Why are you so insistent on finding him anyway?” Chris asks him, then takes a look at him – and realizes. He has seen _Dan Howell._ “Is he really that good-looking?” He adds, which shocks Phil and Hazel.

“You’ve seen him, right?” Phil asks back, not answering the question.

“If I’ve seen a man in his mid-twenties in nothing but loose sweatpants and a sweater with bloodstained-hands, sure.” He replies, as if it was nothing. The glint in Phil’s eyes tells him otherwise.

“Appearing when I need help the most, disappearing afterwards,” Phil muses as he continues to look at the card. “Isn’t that quite convenient? He’s a mystery, Dan Howell.”

 _Bullshit._ Chris thought. “He’s _that_ beautiful, huh?” He replies, earning an offended look from Phil.

“If he’s beautiful, then everybody is.” Phil quips, which made Hazel giggle, and Chris snort.

“You wouldn’t go this far to look for _everybody_ though.” Chris replies, smirking.

A pause. _Is that a confirmation?_

“I think,” Phil replies after a moment, looking at Chris, “ he may be the key to my life.”

He doesn’t even know how to react to that.

“Fine,” he finally agrees, thinking on how he’s an _amazing best friend & secretary _that he’s actually doing this, “I’ll cooperate with the police. They’re finishing the sketches anyway.” He prepares to leave, grabbing the blazer he casually laid on the couch.

“Chris, wait.” Phil says. He stills and turns back to him. “Don’t make the sketches too beautiful.”

“What?” Chris replies back.

“You won’t be able to find him if it’s too beautiful. Make it ugly.”

He decides not to reply to that, give Phil a mock salute, and leave.

 

*

Dan sits back on his desk chair, turning the drawing table he haphazardly shut down in panic once he got back by plugging it out of the socket.

It was blank. He sighs in relief. He takes his laptop, and browses through some old files.

If he was going through everything to actually forget and not question what happened to him in the past hour, he might as well start with going through his old “unpublished continuation episodes”.

 

*

 

PHIL LESTER, a man whose positive outlook on life made him reach far in his young age, gets torn down by society and fate itself, after being the accused murderer of his own family. Hanging on the bridge, he contemplates on ending his own life, to follow his family, his outlook on the world shattered, his hope drained.

But he relents, as he realizes that he hasn’t found the _real murderer_ of his family. He rises up, and starts again.  Four years later, with a successful network and channel that is responsible for solving unsolved cases—finding out the **_W_** _ho & **W** hy _on the most cases, also a successful hotel, and the admiration of the people – he is back on the track, and he never stopped looking for the murderer from all those years ago.

But there was no lead. None. No traces as to whoever might have set up the whole thing, as if it was merely a stroke of creative genius, whoever built the world he was currently living in.  Four years with no lead, he stumbles upon a lead when a mysterious call brings him up on his hotel rooftop to meet an informant.

But at it may have lead him breathless—also almost lying on the floor, bathing in his own blood and with the thoughts of unfulfilled business and a wish for someone’s help; a _lawyer_ – in nothing but his house wear and hazel brown eyes and straightened brown hair that curled during his endeavours on saving his helpless self; makes him live again.

But he disappears, and now he believes _Dan Howell_ might just be holding some answers to the questions he has kept all over the years.

But why, you ask? Why a random passerby who _helped_ him?

Because of context.

Dan Howell has no context. Like his past. Like his actions.

His appearance had nothing to do with anything, and can’t be explained.

_I will find you, Dan Howell._

 

*

 

Dan stares at the webpage, in awe and fear and surprise.

He recognizes some parts that he _actually made_ ;

But there was one particular episode that made him squirm.

Not only did these updates got _uploaded_ even without him sending it; if Louise hadn’t interrupted his shenanigans earlier, with her _congratulations, you’re back on track_ \--he wouldn’t have noticed.

It’s not like he can deny it to Louise. He recognized them.

Just not the part where he sees a drawn version of himself saving _Phil Lester_.

Because where, what, and _why the hell_ did that happen?

Most of all, how?

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up @darkhufflephan on tumblr for trashy stuff  
> Or you can hit me up @sapphire-elliore (on tumblr as well) for prompts/writing-related stuff!  
> <3


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